My Short Horror Story 🖤 I Do Everything With My Canned Spam

Constant television meandering spilling into crackling radio static droning over the hum of gurgling stomach pains and repetitious readjustments in an old worn leather chair. 

The noise is good. Any blanket of distraction helps from the ever present gnaw of hot pain in his stomach. Twisting and piercing into his abdomen straight into his brain with an unforgiving relentless desire to be satiated. How can he think of anything else? This is the life that has consumed him, ever since he could remember. Every moment of pain tethers him to the realization that this may never end. There’s no inception or end. Just infinite. He fumbles for the remotes on the armrest, clicking the buttons to increase the volume. 

Doubling over, stifling a pained moan he holds his torso tightly. No amount of pain medication has ever helped. When he was more able bodied, he did in fact go to the hospital. All the sterile tests and cold medical professionals told him the same thing—there is nothing wrong with your body. Normal, you’re normal. How? In every single segment of time that wrings him in pain…how is there no answer? The lies are somehow worse than the pain. The lies that everyone tells him over and over how could they be lies when this is all he knows. 

Coarsely heaving nothing onto the floor, the radio picks up an odd frequency that catches his attention. 

Darren. 

The static crackles, fading syllables into each other but over the loud hum, he hears it. 

Darren. It’s time again. What are you waiting for you fucking worthless piece of maggot shit? You should go now. What’s stopping you, you need to go. Now. 

The voice is coming clearer. Deep and gargled, like someone is trying to talk with lightly liquid mushed beans stuffed in their throat. His left eye tears slightly, wishing that he would stop. This isn’t right, it's never been right but here he is, asking him to do the impossible again. 

“No,” he weakly mutters. It hurts to speak. Any breath that exists his bloodied, crackled scabbed over lips is futile. This is the only way he’ll listen. “You’re done ordering me. I can’t do what you want, it hurts too…much”. The last word barely whispers as he heaves again. 

The television flickers to a snowy static fog. The voice emits from the next room, from the fridge, in a sickeningly loud volume that feels like it’s blue toothed directly to his mind. 

Since when did you start making your own decisions? Where has that gotten you, Darren? What I’m asking for is not that complicated and you know it’ll help. You’re a fetus that should’ve been an abortion and now you need me. 

Darren manages to cough up stringy clumps of translucent, almost milky mucus with bits of greenish yellow bits that give the room an acidic odor. The pain only intensifies. 

Sobbing, Darren pleads, “You can’t make me please. I just want to die.” 

You won’t, because you can’t because you’re a coward. You can’t do anything for yourself, even taking your own meaningless life. How…pitiful… 

The kitchen. Where else could the source be? 

Meagerly rising, he falls back onto the hot punctured chair. His worn clothes clings to the surface, not permitting him to move. After a moment of gathering his strength, he tries again. Stumbling onto a knee, the floor creaks under his thin frame. The doctors told Darren he needed to eat more as malnourishment was a possibility in his near future. What they didn’t understand was that Darren tried.

He reaches the threshold of the kitchen, completely at a loss. Blackened stained dishes piled up in the sinks and counters. Misplaced moldy paper in almost every corner and scraps of small hard morsels that used to be food. He steps forward and nearly slips, grabbing onto a nearby counter. He stepped on a couple papers that covered his vomit from yesterday, a small reminder of his own bodily failure. 

Darren’s fridge was a tomb of leftovers–silent, cold, and reeking faintly of onions. But tonight, something inside of him whispered to him. Not in words, at first. Just…pulses. A wet rhythmic sound, almost like breathing. When he opens the fridge, he saw it. A dusty can of spam, decades old, sitting alone on the shelf like a patient in a hospital bed. 

Your hunger is tearing you apart, Darren the can grumbles, stating facts as clear as day. As clear as the continuous twisting pain that vibrates every cell in Darren’s body. It’s time to abide. 

An endless amount of food has entered Darren’s body, only to be ejected out immediately after. The doctors don’t care, they lied to his face and secretly wished he’d quietly go away and die, buried underneath a sea of regret. 

“They knew, didn’t they?” Darren mutters, as he clumsily lurches, almost losing his foothold. 

Of course they knew you fucking idiot sputtered the can, angrier than before. Even before you turned into this grotesque mess, there’s something everyone has always known about you. You don’t belong here and no one wants to help someone like that. It’s your eyes, Darren. Quiet and lifeless. 

Darren stops for a moment, tears threatening to pool up again. He’s right. There is something deeply wrong with his body and there was never a moment in time someone was kind to him. What did he do to deserve this? 

Stop fucking around you parasite. 

Regaining balance, he gazes more intently into the refrigerator. Green and white fuzzy textures litter the surface area of all the visible food scattered sparsely around. He grabs a Tupperware that may be an option, but it sloshes around and he suddenly remembers he doesn’t ever have soup. 

Bologna. He could cut off the hard brown shriveled edges. Cheese slices lay on the bottom of the fridge, pooled in a light brown viscous liquid, but they’re still in the clear thin plastic so it’s fine. Enough. He reaches for the items and clears a portion of the counter, breaking an old cup that contained…something. Directly on the counter Darren begins to assemble. The bread is stale, but it’s good. Layering on bits of torn bologna, and laying down one single slice of cheese that seemingly will never expire. One more hardened, slightly green piece of bread and now it’s complete. 

The loud amalgamation of noises from the living room starts to fade. A deep, warm lurch makes his belly roll and a cold paleness sweeps his skin. Tears finally reach his cheeks as he stares at the sandwich. This precise moment in time is when Darren feels the most removed from the human race. To hunger is to desire and the only emotion he knows is real is pain. 

Stop stoooppppp stop stop stop STOP you’re making me want to kill myself and I’m just a fucking can of spam. How many times do I have to watch this pissy crybaby party. I don’t give a shit anymore, die don’t die I don’t give a fuck. 

“Please.” Darren sniffles. The canned spam brought him this far. The canned spam is the only contact he’s had in months. The canned spam has helped him more than he’s been able to help himself in a long time. “Don’t…don’t, please. I need you.” 

What else do I need to say? Eat the damned thing. 

Darkness surrounding his vision threatens to close in. The goosebumps on his skin makes him want to peel off his own skin with his rotted teeth. The only thing watering his mouth is the lingering remnants to stomach acid from before. 

His clammy hand trembles as he reaches for the thing. It’s one thing to create it but now he’s done the preparation, he’s standing on the edge of a cliff. Gripping it with his boney fingers, he holds it closer to his mouth. He hasn’t had an appetite for a long time and if there was a weak flicker of it before, it’s completely snuffed out now. 

The foul odor of his mouth reaches his own nose as he opens it to allow the sandwich to enter. Step by step he wills his own body to perform the next task. Bite. Close lips. Chew with incisors. Use tongue to move it to molars. Chew. Chew again. Use saliva to make it into mush. Swallow. 

Swallow. 

Swallo— 

SWALLOW IT YOU DUMB FUCK. 

Completely still, with the chewed bolus stuck in the back of his throat, he wills himself to swallow. Might as well have been small rock pebbles. It hurts going down his esophagus, scraping past the raw tissue that’s only met his own bile. It reaches the bottom and he can physically feel the mass enter stomach. 

Nothing. The loud clamoring from the living room slowly creeps back into his perception but his sweaty skin remains, tight and cold. He’s done it. It’s done. 

And just when I thought you couldn’t be more idiotic. You need to eat the entire thing. Or do I have to tell you you need to wipe your ass after you shit—oh wait, you don’t. 

Unsuccessfully tuning out the canned spam, Darren is staring the sandwich in the face yet again. One bite went okay, the second one should be fine. A whiff of rot and now spoiled meat and cheese enters his nostrils and he does the entire, anguishing process again. Bite bite bite. Chew chew chew. Not quite as laborious as before and now, it’s time to make it official again.

Swallow. 

The large mass inches its way down inside, another successful attempt to nourish his body. It reaches the bottom of his sternum and the revolt begins. 

Tight, anguishing cramps twist his stomach, bringing his skeletal frame instantly to his knees. Darren howls, weakly but enough for any near passersby to hear. Notes of strung together sounds of pain hang in the air as he claws his chest, tearing off newly scabbed over pieces of flesh. Like a cat, he curls his back up towards the ceiling, like a string tied to his spine pulling him up. Spasms like a twisting knife keeps him unable to think, unable to breathe, unable to recognize himself as an organism as he opens his mouth to spew out everything onto the floor in front of him. If it didn’t hurt going in, it definitely did when it returned. Blood, bile, chunky remnants of food pool underneath his hands as he struggles to remain conscious. After moments of unending vomiting, he collapses, too weak to care that his own face is now also pooled in his own mess. 

Hahahahaha….the can taunts. I don’t know why I even bother. You’re hopeless. 

“I…mm…I…I’m not-t-t.” Darren whimpers, hardly making any coherent syllables. Shallow breathing makes the vomit ripple around his open mouth. 

Your entire existence is meaningless. No one is coming to gather your remains. No one cares if you die right now. Tepid, anxious, isolating, lonely, disgusting, filthy, sick, disgustin— 

“S-T-TOP!!! Plea-se. Pl-please sto-p-p.” 

All I can do is talk to you. You told me you don’t want me to leave and I’m not going to coddle a grown man unable to help himself. 

Darren takes a pause. He will die here in this prison. The canned spam is correct yet again. No one will ever knock on his door, not even when his corpse liquifies and fuses with the ground. The smallest amount of last ditch effort embers. He will do and if he doesn’t then he’ll at least return to his resting place on the tattered living room chair and loop There Will Be Blood until there’s no more. 

He shakily lifts his vomit soaked torso off the ground. He grabs a few nearby scraps of paper to covers the newest puddle on the kitchen floor. “You…you need to help me. Tell me, please. Anything, I want to live.” 

This is certainly something I thought I’d never see. Again, let’s just hope you even have enough in you. I’d say eat to get your strength up but, haha, well, obviously… 

“Stop fucking around.” Darren uncharacteristically snaps. 

Take it easy, Darren. I’m just happy you’ve come around. Manage to change your shirt and splash that shit off your face and we’ll go. 

After long bouts of lingering pain, attempt after attempt, Darren unclothes and steps into the shower. Turning the spigot takes additional effort since it hasn’t been turned in quite some time. It echoes in the grimy bathroom, leaking drops of water as it makes its way past the clogged shower head. After some blackened water escapes, it flows more freely, slowly soaking the top of Darren’s head. The clearing water returns to a darker color as it runs over his body and down the drain. He stands still, unmoving underneath the water, just focusing on standing without swaying. As soon as the water at the bottom of the tub runs light brown he turns it off. 

The pieces of clothing he chooses are damp with mold but is the best option he has. He looks lost, swimming in the clothing he once filled. He rummages for an old belt, haphazardly using a dull knife to create a new hole too far from the others. 

You look horrible. Better than I’ve seen you in months. 

“Shut the fuck up.” Darren seethes. 

I’m actually getting excited for you Darren. The world has never seen this side of you. So fired up to keep yourself alive. 

“Let’s just go.” he says quickly, grabbing the can and placing him in the pocket of his pants. The cartilage between his bones remember the purpose of continuous movement and becomes slightly easier as Darren leaves the house. The sun is setting. Rising? Darren reminds himself his house faces north and concludes the sun is rising. He quietly shuffles down the noisy street, on his way to the only place he could think of. The local diner. 

You must stink like high hell Darren! There’s a permanent radius around you, people don’t fucking like you. 

“What the fuck did I say, shut the fuck up.” He whispers in the direction of his right pocket. 

Save all that animosity for later dipshit. I’m the one helping you, remember? 

“Yeah, yeah.” Darren says dismissively as he navigates through the noisy crowd of local neighbors. It’s so loud and crowded no matter what time of day it is. In the city, it’s so easy to be lost in the crowd but hard to not draw attention when someone like Darren, awkwardly scuffling through them. 

Step after step, he approaches the tiny luxury he appreciated before. The diner is busy as usual, it never seems to run out of patrons, even this early in the morning. Looks of curiosity and slight disgust transform their faces as Darren enters. Keeping his head down, he shuffles to the barstool counter, where he will now wait. 

Dated music crackles over the speakers and people drone on and on about their lives, laughing and talking about…anything. They all could be distant solar systems away, so far out of reach from anything Darren could remotely feel. Isolated in his own void of pain, how could anyone be jovial being in his state? 

“May I help you?” says a quiet, gentle female voice from across the counter. Darren looks up tepidly. Here she is. Light auburn hair. Big doe, hazel eyes. Skin, slightly textured even underneath all her makeup but angelic all the same. She may be the only person who made him feel like he had it all together. 

“Darren,” she nervously laughs, “ you look horrible babe. Let me get you a cup of coffee.” She scampers off to fill a porcelain cup of weak, room temperature coffee. 

“Still, uh…haven’t fixed that thing yet?” he chides, wondering if this connection hasn’t actually faded. 

“Well uh, you see, it was fixed for quite some time and then lo and behold, yours truly went and fucked it up again.” She laughs. Her laugh. So bright and colorful. Life. She’s so happy and content, despite it all. Jealously ignites a rumble of appetite inside. 

Hardly sipping the coffee from the cup placed in front of him, he stares at her directly in those beautiful eyes, “There’s nothing that you can possibly do that you should be embarrassed about.” 

Are you fucking serious? That’s your move?? 

Darren exhaustibly sighs, not wanting the can to lose his own focus. If there is anything he absolutely needs, it’s Brenda. 

“Look,” Brenda sighs, “I don’t know what's been going on with you, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you or even talked to you. You can’t just…show up here like everything is all the same.” 

Darren ceases to move. Mild annoyance amplifies to the most extreme anger. “Brenda,” he seethes under his toxic breath, “I didn’t come here to chat as ‘buddies’. I didn’t come here to just sip on the fucking worst cup of coffee I’ve ever had in my life. I’m here because I need you. You, Brenda. If you know anything about me, asking for help from anyone is the biggest ask from myself. Ever. I need you.” 

Moments of silence pass. Brenda has always had an affection towards Darren. She knew that he was bad news, even from before, but now she’s astounded he’d ever come by to ask her for anything. Darren always seemed so self assured, even in his own shortcomings. The sounds of the diner radiated on as Brenda swallowed, her now dry throat. 

“Darren,” she whispers, closing in on the distance between their faces. She repels the need to gag being so close to his mouth. “You can't come here and do this. Everyone has always told me about you, and now I see what they’re saying. I’m sorry, I wish I could but I have my own needs. My own responsibilities. Go get help. The help you’re wishing to find here doesn’t exist.” 

Panging, thudding anger rings throughout Darren’s body. This is the first time he’s ever experienced something other than pain and it’s all consuming. His soles, his palms, his freshly torn skin burns as he reluctantly digests what she's saying. 

There are too many people. If it was sunset, there wouldn’t be so many people. He’d grab her by the hair, twist her feeble arm behind her back, dragging her with him, whispering in her ear, “Make this look natural and I won’t execute you here on the side of a road like a bitch.” Possibilities flash in his mind and he dejectedly stares back into Brenda’s pleading eyes. 

“BRENDA CAN YOU FUCKING HEAR ME, THOSE GODDAMN PEOPLE NEED THEIR FUCKING COFFEE AND ORDER TAKEN GET THE FUCK ON IT!” a loud booming voice coming from the window behind the counter. They’ve been in their own world for far too long and now she’s being pulled back to her own safety. Fucking hell. 

She scampers off and now, alone, Darren grips the shitty coffee water with the tightest grip possible. She’s gone. Darren won’t be able to do what needs to be done. She’s gone. His face, bright red and hot, gets more illuminated when he stands up and throws the porcelain cups across the room. People quietly shout and mutter but this is no uncommon occurrence. Plus, how could anyone think someone as frail as Darren can actually pose a threat. 

You’re a failure. A rock bottom piece of shit, worthless fucking failure. What the fuck are you going to do now? I’m fully prepared for you to take us home so I can slowly watch you die. 

Throat, pounding with overzealous emotion, he limps out of the diner. Sun rays singe his eyes as he keeps his head down, returning back to his self made prison. All bets are off and now he’s willingly returning just to die. It’s time anyway. Darkness, nothingness, bliss is what awaits. A small part of Darren relaxes in relief at the thought. 

So that’s it? You’re actually going to choose being the worst human being in existence? Figures. 

“I’ve had enough. You’ve seen me try. Over and over again. It’s not like I haven’t tried. I—“ 

Stop. 

The can is the first to see. The can is the first to sense the innocent shift in energy before Darren could even locate it with his own eyes. A small, petite woman approaches, hunching over and whispering all to herself not so differently than he does. Methamphetamines? Heroin? It’s all the same when you’re in that deep. She’s so young looking though. Young, decaying flesh on a frame like hers is such a shame. 

“Hey uh, miss.” Darren says, trying to catch her attention. She walks past, not acknowledging anything beyond two inches in front of her own eyes. Darren shifts backwards, almost falling from the sudden urgent movement and taps her in the shoulder. “Hey, hey, hey, what’s up? What’s going on?” 

She lazily rolls her head towards him, eyeline dragging behind until they eventually reach his own. She looks even worse than Darren anticipated. Bloodshot eyes, crusted waterline that looks infected, overly porous skin, where you can even see her rotted teeth on the outside of her ruined cheek. Lips that are eroded away and bloodied gums where there aren't blackened teeth. What on Earth happened to this girl? 

“Hummph?” She gargles, registering that there are indeed other people around her. She looks like she’s about to fall over, and he assists. Never in his life has he met someone so lost in their own despair, more than he. ”C-come with me, I’ll take you somewhere safe, okay? Somewhere…you can be safe.” 

It’s one thing to lure in someone you know, it’s another to fully take advantage of some stranger so vulnerable. Isn’t it, Darren? You’ve been like this for so long, what makes a difference now? 

“Don’t fucking talk to me until we get home.” Darren lashes. The girl lifelessly looks up at him in question and Darren says, “I…I wasn’t talking to you.” What makes him so different from this junkie? All delusions are valid, as real as they can be. 

The door cracks open loudly as they enter his home. They both stumble, but she fully lands onto her side on the rotted floor boards and yelps. This is the first conscious thought she’s had all day. Good. 

Darren. Darren. Darren. What do you intend to do with this girl? 

Silently, he walks towards her as she wriggles on the ground, attempting to find equilibrium. He stands, swaying so slightly, watching over her and reveling in her pain. This is the most beautiful distraction from his own suffering. The most positively exhilarated he’s felt in a long time. 

“So what you got?” She stammers. She’s lifting herself onto her knees, still shaking in aimless addiction. Off one knee and off the other, she slowly readjusts her posture upward and stares doubly at him. “What the fuck do you got?” 

How strange. How pitiful. The discontent and lack of empathy. At least Darren isn’t like this. True scum of the Earth, writhing around like a worm in the dirt. “I’ve got some shit in the kitchen.” monotone, limping away from her to the other room. She stumbles, obviously in need of any fix. Her pain is brimming and she will do anything to satiate it. 

They enter the kitchen, and she holds onto the counter to steady her balance. Darren opens the fridge and pulls out the Tupperware container. 

“Here,” he suggests, holding out an extended arm towards her, “this is some shit I got now to hold you over. I’ve got the real shit somewhere else, I have to go get it.” 

She takes it blindly, pulling off the top. Placing the container on her lips, she swallows thick molded matter, clumps of rotted meat and all the little white larva that cover it. 

“What the f-fuck is this?” She asks, wiping her mouth with the corner of her dirty long sleeved shirt. 

“All of my shit is homemade. Takes some time getting used to but if you want a REAL high, you’ve come to the right place.” 

Darren!! I’m actually somewhat impressed. Taking a life of your own, who am I to judge? Do some more shit and I’ll be here watching. 

The junkie's eyes widen with momentary excitement. She looks up at him, with the most infectious endearment he’s ever seen in years. If not ever. Darren is her God. 

He limps away, while she giggles to herself in excitement. She’s probably tried anything available to her, to be this far gone. Distancing himself, Darren reassures himself he has inexplicable self hatred and an unsatiated sense of self preservation. Normal bodily functions aside, he wants to live.  

After returning from his room, he hobbles towards the kitchen. She’s in her daze again, on the floor, phasing in and out of consciousness, reliant that Darren will deliver what she needs. The pure ecstasy of self destruction. Nothing else matters but your own eventual demise. At least you can take control of it, right? 

His malnourished frame bends down to her, so close. She looks in need of an exorcism but what she really needs is release. She limply looks up to him, with sweat glistening on her forehead and lip, or what was her lip. She runs her tongue over her gums and smiles, “You got it right, you got it? Please give it to me I’ve been looking for it for so fucking long I was going to die if I didn’t get this shit soon whatever the fuck please please give it to—“ 

A small thud interrupts her. Darren uses the wooden end of the dull knife to hit the base of her skull. Not enough to knock her out but enough to make her pause. Confused, she looks more intently into his eyes. “What the fuck are you doing?” 

Darren remains silent for a moment. 

You’ve got it Darren. You’re here. You don’t need me to hold your hand through this. 

“This shit that I have, feels even better when you’re dazed, alright? It takes the pain away, before you even lift off to the clouds. It lasts for forever.” he whispers closely into her face. She’s not repelled by him or the environment. She’s focused on her needs just as he is. 

“Give me your arm and relax.” He forcefully takes her arm and points the dull end of the knife to her wrist. He looks up at her face. She’s cowardly, squinting her eyes because she knows the temporary pain will take her where she needs to go. No more hesitation. 

Darren looks down and punctures her right arm wrist vein. She shallowly gasps and accepts. He drags along her flesh until it stops at the meat of her palm. “When…when does it start?” she submissively questions. 

“Now.” 

Darren stabs her palm, dull end piercing her calloused flesh over and over until the shock jolts her to self awareness. She screams but Darren has just enough strength to overcome her weak body. One bony hand covers her throat as he now directs the dull bloodied blade to her chest. 

The chest is where it lies. The chest is what covers what’s vital. Not only blood, ventricles, veins, connective tissues, alveoli, lungs, breath, essence, but the very existence of what makes a human a human. 

She thrashes with unforeseen might that he was not expecting. However, if something this important was taken from you, wouldn’t you give some fight? 

He grips his thumb and other hand muscles increasingly taught, digging, scraping deeper into and onto her breasts, pulling out matter through larger holes he’s created. The blood sops out, pouring more essence of what he's been craving. 

She continues to cry, unable to escape his grasp. She claws now at his face, digging her nails into his skin, scraping it off like a cheese grater. She attempts to stick a thumb in his eye but he swiftly bites and headbutts it away. She sees the dried blood on his own tattered shirt and she targets his chest with success. 

Her fingers penetrate the freshly cut wounds on his chest and Darren shouts in pain. Not any pain he hasn’t dealt with before, far from it. Enough to make him more focused. 

He twists his hand on her throat, angling her chin up towards the ceiling. He leaves the dull knife protruding from her chest and blindly feels around him. A few scraps of paper. Uninhibited motion when he lands on it. It’s not tact with another hard surface but it covers something else. Something he wants to give her. 

He removes the paper while staring at her gasping face and scoops up day old vomit off the floor. He slams it into her mouth, closing it over with his hand. She has no other option but to breathe from her nose. 

“Shhhh shh shh. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Aimlessly walking down the street. Nothing to look forward to. Nothing to feed your desire.” He whispers, lovingly to her face, his lips grazing her skin. Her face, her ears. The tears that won’t stop coming down. 

“This is it. This is what you were put here for. Your purpose. Be fulfilled. Be…convicted in your truth.” 

A little cliche, don’t you think? Stop with the honorifics stupid fuck. 

Darren places his pinky over her nose and unblinkingly stares at her while she reluctantly swallows his vomit and sobs even more. This isn’t getting anywhere. He pulls out the knife from her chest and sticks it directly into her jugular. As he pulls it out, blood spouts like an unending faucet, then soon after blood mixed with his own bile. 

She screams, loudly but muffled. Screams, softer but muffled. Now quiet. Nothing. Her newly formed spider vines framing her face looks beautiful. Not as beautiful as Brenda but this will do. 

He removed his hand from her face and collapses onto the floor beside her. She postmortem gargles. He snaps up to look at her and she remains still, with an occasional twitch and additional exhale of remnant gases. 

Well fucking done! I was the LAST thing on this planet that ever had faith in you but you’ve done it. Sure, would that stuck up bitch from the diner would be ideal, of course. You did what was necessary. Minimum required effort. You fought for your life and now, it’s time. 

Darren fixes his gaze onto the floor again. The exhilaration pulses through him. The happiest he’s ever been. Unsure of himself, he asks, “So…what do I do now?” 

You’re in the kitchen already! Get her on the countertop. 

He lifts himself off the ground and recklessly shoves all the contents off the counter top by the sink. Darren takes a little more time to actually pick up scraps of paper, and other leftover debris while the can hums. After meticulously preparing the surface, he struggles to lift her carcass. Limp and almost heavier than it was before when he was aiding her. Dead weight. Wait, actual dead weight. 

The can of spam hums at a higher frequency as before. 

The junkie…or was the junkie is now on the counter. Darren sways as he reels in the emotions. Satisfaction? Disgust? Accomplishment or disappointment? Dead dead dead dead she’s dead she’s— 

She’s dead you fucktard, the can laughs, but luckily you have me to keep you on the straight and narrow. Clear the sink. 

Darren clears the sink. Detached, zombielike, but anticipating the best self fulfilling outcome. 

He remains silent until the next order. 

Take a new knife. The one you used was…unproductive. There is a nice, larger knife in the drawer to your left and also a small pumice stone in the back somewhere too. Take it. Sharpen it. 

Darren stiffly, but obediently does as he’s told. He wets the knife and runs the sharp end on the stone, back and forth and back and forth. He sees the jagged edges smooth into a sharp edge. 

You’ve done well, actually. Never would’ve thought I’d see the day. Remove her clothes. 

He struggles to take off her soiled clothes. Shoes, socks, jeans, no underwear? Shirt, undershirt and bra. All now scattered onto the floor. She’s here. Bloodstained and ready for anything. 

This one doesn’t have a lot of fat at all. Get straight to the point. Cut off her tits, some of her arms and maybe some from her inner thighs. 

Darren does. He pinches one nipple and raises his hand to lift it up. All the fatty tissue slightly sagging at the base. He instinctively, expertly, uses the edge of the blade to slice through the skin, dermis, epidermis, fat, muscle, veins and rotates around the circumference until he can freely lift up the breast from the nipple. 

He throws it into the sink, ready to start with the other.  

I’M IMPRESSED I’M SO IMPRESSED! Keep going Darren keep fucking going and don’t you stop. 

He lifts her arm, cutting away from her biceps, strip by strip, continuously mutilating her and throwing pieces of her into the red sink. He moves on, spreading her disgusting legs apart, also soiled by defecation caused by death. He traces her femurs with the blade, releasing the meat he’s been wanting. Into the sink. 

Hahahahahahhaa, the can of spam manically laughs, Darren Darren Darren you’re doing it you’re finally doing it this is so fucking good you’re not lost actually you’re the one who else can derive this amount of satisfaction from something like this it’s you it’s you Darren Darren Darren please please keep going DONT YOU FUCKING STOP! 

The sink faucet runs, making the meat pool red and eventually, after a long time, it clears. Darren clumsily locates a pot and fills it up with water. He finds a few leftover, untouched spices. Coarse pepper. Ground cumin. Paprika. Dried dill. Onion powder. The rolling boil changes color as he dips the junkie's meat into the pot. 

Jealousy. Envy. Hatred. Self disappointment, all in the pot and evaporating away along with the human stenched steam. 

Fat creates a small film on the top of the boiling water. All of her impurities are being cleansed from her. He scoops it into the red sink, delighted to see the clear evidence of his accomplishments. 

It's almost time, it’s almost here, you’re ready. 

He lifts a piece of meat from the pot. Still steaming, still raw but barely cooked enough. His mouth is flooded with real saliva this time. His hunger is not overshadowed by pain. Pure want. 

For the third time today he opens his mouth and accepts his feeding. This time, without the hesitation burdening him before. Without the relentless pain and embarrassment that proceeds. He takes a bite. Chews and explores a firework of flavors in his mouth. Gamey. Chewy. Strands of tendons stuck between his own rotted teeth. An undertone of sadness and pity. All the ingredients for his own self fulfillment. 

He swallows without second guessing. It’s nature to him now. It’s what he’s been craving for. Darren drunkenly chews and eats and swallows repetitively without concern. This is what he's been waiting for. Swallow after swallow. More of the junkie fills his belly. 

A lurch. 

A twist. 

A sting of pain. 

“Huh?? What the fuck…” he leans onto the counter over to butchered corpse and hold his stomach tight. “I thought this was DONE, I thought this would end WHAT THE FUCCC—“ 

Darren retches and pukes all over the counter. All over her body. Into the sink. Projectile chunky human rejected from his body all over. Snot running from his nose. Bile stuck in his sinuses. He can’t help but feel defeated. 

Well well. Sorry Darren. Looks like you can’t keep down anything! Actually anything. Sad, so fucking sad. Even at this stage, just…c’mon. Throw on that movie and let’s just get this over with. 

“NO!” Darren hallowed, guttural, powered by all the grief and sorrow he’s ever felt in his life. It echoes on throughout the house, beyond the yard, streets down the busy sidewalks and into the next neighboring towns. The vibration of his newfound enthusiasm changed his own DNA, as a tsar bomb would. 

Hastily, savagely, he digs his face into her lifeless cadaver. Raw, tender but tight flesh clings to his lips as he violates her torn apart body caused by his own devices. Blood drips down off the counter ledge, just as it drips off his chin as he continues to chew her body in his mouth. The true sweetness is amplified. The real pain. The real suffering. The drug stinged tissue that makes this all worth it. 

This is it. This is what you’ve been waiting for. You may not need me after this but I’m happily along the ride for this journey you’ve decided to take. 

Darren does not address the canned spam. He doesn’t need to. He is lost in the bone and the skin and the torn apart tissue of this pitiful, worthless junkie. The pain has been far from his mind, and his own body for quite a while now. This is what he needs. This is what will make him full of life again. 

Hours and hours pass by. Every inch of her face is torn apart. The muscle and tendons hang on strands like frayed strings, dangling waiting to be ignited by something that will never come. Her clavicles, the rib bones, her waist and spine and patella and metacarpals and tibia and femur all exposed by his now unending want to be fulfilled. It’s happened, it’s time, it’s his time to finally be released from his own shackles and be freed from this dark hole of existence. 

Slumped over, overindulged, bloated, and belly about to physically burst, he leans over and opens his mouth. 

A large, guttural deep beneath the surface belch exists his mouth and the first genuine wave of contentment washes over his entire body. This is what he’s been searching for. Wiping sweat off his brow, he turns infectiously redeemed, looking at the torn apart, stale, expired can of spam. The only thing that’s been here through thick and thin. 

Properly cleaned her off the bone. I’m truly baffled by your effort to put in a little work. Now, you and your 50 pound belly should not rest yet. People saw you drag that vagrant in here against her will, did you forget? Too distracted by your own fleeting pain? Get rid of her. Now. 

Darren’s distended belly is on the precipice of tearing itself from the inside out. His own viscera is willingly able to unravel at any moment but the can is right. There is no telling when authorities may come to the door and question him. He lifts himself from the blood soaked floor and shakily gathers himself. 

The garden. 

Darren stumbles to the backdoor, noticing a shovel laying down by a mound of mossy grass and weeds. The garden is something he hasn’t kept but now is self assured that this is where he can definitively keep some secrets. Interestingly, a small patch of surface is noticeably more tilled than the rest. From rain? Wind? It doesn’t matter. 

He picks up the shovel and digs in the high noon of the day but concealed in his own world of wonder. He feels the best he’s ever had in ages and wonders if the doctors were right. Nothing physically ails him. Ruinous thoughts plague his mind, as he is aware that his stomach is ten times its size, full of human remains. His arms flail, maneuvering around his gorged stomach as he digs deeper into the soil. Into the surface and down underneath, he will find the junkie's actual final resting place other than the toilet and sewage system. 

Keep going, just keep going, don’t stop whatever you do don't…

The canned spam trails off. The Earth bears itself in front of Darren, not unlike the junkie before he tore her flesh apart. There in front of him, in the light of midday are bones. Fractured and torn apart, soiled into the earth and disintegrated as could physically be. 

“What the…” he staggers back. Falling to a knee, he grips down onto the weeds underneath him. All breath has escaped as pitiful anguish permeates his consciousness again.

What do you want me to say? What could I possibly tell you that would make your poor life decisions okay? 

“I’m….I…mmm a mur–” 

A murder? A self fulfilling killer? This hasn’t been your first rodeo partner and every single time you wallow like an infant, waiting to suck your stupid mother’s rotted tit again, you despair even more. The fuck do you want from me? What could I possibly do for you? 

He folds over onto himself in denial, stretching and tightening over his own frail body yet again as if he’s started from square one. The pain, the suffering, the anguish, it all comes flooding back as the realization stains his brain. 

This is not the first, nor could it be the last. His existence flows more as radiation than anything else. Gamma waves, things unseeable, permanently altering anything it contacts with. Permanent death, permanent disruption. Nothing Darren could possibly do will change this trajectory to self demise.